


Brought Up (Instead of Put Down)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he starts coaching the Avalanche, Patrick Roy has to find a way to bring the best out of Matt Duchene. Rated teen for hockey player language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brought Up (Instead of Put Down)

“Patrick empowers us. Sure, he gives us a kick when we need it, but when he knows we need to be treated with a little softer touch and brought up instead of put down, that’s what he does.”—Matt Duchene describing Patrick Roy’s treatment of his players

Brought Up (Instead of Put Down) 

Patrick Roy massaged his temples as he stared into the whirls of wood on his desk and contemplated the ideal approach to the paradoxically straightforward enigma that was Matt Duchene, who should be arriving from his post-practice shower soon. As a young player expected to be a top-line center for the Avalanche, Matt was a crucial part of the team, which meant it was vital that Patrick find a way to extract Dutchy’s best from him where Sacco—or, as the team joked under their collective breath when they imagined Patrick was out of earshot, Sucko—had failed abysmally with benching and barbed commentary to the media about attitude issues and defensive lapses. 

Before he had started training camp, Patrick had figured that he would take a gentler track with Dutchy more rooted in the carrot than the stick, but the trouble with such a method that he hadn’t fully foreseen was that in order for the carrot to be effective enticement, the creature had to trust the hand extending the treat enough to eat from it. 

Unfortunately but understandably, given his hostile history with Sacco, Matt wasn’t at that point yet with any coach. Although Patrick could discern from the sidelong glances that Matt tossed him during drills and scrimmages whenever he had orchestrated a particularly pretty play or notched a very gorgeous goal that Matt yearned to impress and please him, he also sensed that Matt was the human equivalent of the abused puppy at the pound who pruned around hoping to be adored but balked and barked away from any who attempted to actually touch it. Like the whipped puppy, Matt’s instincts had been so corrupted that he anticipated any petting session to end with a kick in the ribcage, and, just as with the beaten puppy, it would be easier to put him down than to pick him up and heal him, but Patrick was determined to rescue Matt and mold him into the elite center he had been drafted to be. 

Yesterday evening, during a team dinner of soda and pizza, Patrick had drawn Gabe out of the lounge, loud with laughter, into the hallway for a word and a walk to gain some insight into how to crack open the Matt Duchene lock. 

“Am I in trouble, Patty?” Gabe had asked, arching an eyebrow as he folded a fresh slice—probably his fifth—of barbecue chicken pizza. 

“No.” Patrick had shaken his head and watched droplets of grease slip from his wedge of pepperoni pizza onto his paper plate. “It Dutchy I’m concerned about.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, Coach.” Gabe had managed to form a chuckle around the strand of cheddar cheese stretching from his mouth to his pizza. “That gluten-free shit just looks toxic, but it’s actually quite edible and nutritious. Now that Dutchy has grown beyond such small matters as taste, smell, and texture when it comes to food, he hasn’t barfed up any gluten-free crap in months.” 

“It not his diet that I want to talk to you about.” Patrick’s eyes had pierced into Gabe’s baffled, sobering ones. “Dutchy didn’t have a good relationship with Sacco, did he?” 

“Nobody had a good relationship with Sacco.” Gabe’s attention had seemed to be riveted on unscrewing the cap from his Coke bottle. “Sacco wasn’t going to win a Mr. Popularity Award in the locker room any time this century, but that wouldn’t have been a big deal to him. He was the kind of coach who knew there was a thermostat in the locker room but he wasn’t ever about to consider checking the temperature.” 

Patrick’s jaw had tightened, as he thought that the sort of coach Gabe had described would be exactly the type to keep solving at Matt’s mind even when it was clearly in shambles. Coaches were supposed to have a pulse on how their players were feeling, not reduce them to needing a sports psychologist to reassemble their demolished self-esteem. 

“Matt had extra bad relationship with Sacco?” Patrick had prodded, as a fist of fury had clenched around his lungs, making it a challenge for him to respirate at a steady rhythm. 

“You’d have to ask Matt about that.” Gabe had sipped at his soda, and Patrick had interpreted that as a sign that the captain was delving into a polite but murky as mud mode, which was probably the closest a solid Swede could come to outright mutiny. “It’s not my place to say.” 

“Wrong.” Patrick had whistled and watched Gabe’s ears perk up like a terrier’s at the familiar sound. “You captain so is your job to say.” 

“I’m not a snitch.” Gabe’s voice had trembled like Jello but his eyes had been as unwavering as boulders. “If you want some tattle-tale as your captain, you’ll have to appoint someone else.” 

“I don’t want another captain.” Patrick had slung an arms around Gabe’s stiffening shoulders. “You my captain, and I rely on your judgment to help make this team click together like puzzle, so when I ask you for advice on how to handle player or situation, I need you to be honest with me.” 

Gabe had hesitated for a moment and then said softly, “With Sacco it was just my responsibility to pick teammates up after he put them down and to try to amp everyone up for games when it was hard to feel motivated about anything with our losing record.” 

“That because Sacco in a war with his players so you just make sure the casualties of the fighting aren’t too bad.” Patrick had squeezed Gabe’s shoulder. “I different. My players and I a team. We work together to win, and, as captain, you help keep us working together.” 

As though preparing to skinny dip into the Arctic Ocean, Gabe had taken a deep breath before establishing in an undertone, “Look, Patty, there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Dutchy and Sacco. Their personalities clashed, and they had conflicting visions about what this team should do to be successful. Sacco was obsessed with dump-and-chase hockey, while Dutchy was always struggling for more offensive freedom. Sacco emphasized grinding defense, and Dutchy was more interested in being aggressive with his speed. Dutchy longed to be able to show off his strengths, and Sacco was more focused on eliminating his weaknesses.” 

Here Gabe bestowed a cheeky grin and wink on Patrick before continuing, “Matt likes to be able to put on a show and be admired by his audience for his moves. He wants to excite and electrify people. He already respects you more than he ever did Sacco, but if you let him be a human highlight reel, you’ll probably earn his undying devotion.” 

“Thanks.” Patrick had smiled and reached out to ruffle Gabe’s hair, which glistened like gold under the harsh bars of artificial light in the corridor. “You give me ideas, Landy.” 

“You pay me back by ruining my hair.” With a yelp of protest reminiscent of a wet kitten howling to be let inside out of a torrential downpour, Gabe had twisted away from Patrick and frantically finger-combed his locks into some semblance of a style. “That’s so not fair. Do you think it’s easy to look this great?” 

“I give you fashionable, windswept look.” Patrick had smirked. “You should be on your knees thanking me, you ungrateful brat.” 

“More like a hand-swept look.” Gabe’s eyes had rolled like beach balls. “That’s not cool at all.” 

“One day, you should write article on hair care.” Patrick had chuckled. “You share all your hair rules and tips in it.” 

“Maybe I will.” Laughing, Gabe had stuck out his tongue. “Only if you swear to read it, though.” 

Patrick was yanked abruptly out of this memory by a rap on the threshold of his open office door. 

“You wanted to see me?” Matt, who was standing in the doorway in sandals and sweats, phrased this as more of a question than a statement, which Patrick took as an indication that Matt equated private discussions with coaches as screaming matches. 

“Yeah.” Patrick jerked a thumb at the leather seat across from his desk. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

Once Matt, wary as a mouse in a lion’s lair, had perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair, Patrick remarked, “You important part of this team, Matt, so we need to get the best out of you, don’t we?” 

“Definitely.” Matt’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and Patrick was reminded of a toad swallowing a fly. “I want to do and be the best I can.” 

“Sacco couldn’t bring out your best,” went on Patrick, reflecting that this was not exactly shocking since Sacco had been striving to morph a thoroughbred into a plow horse, so Patrick could only be grateful that Sacco had failed or else Matt’s innate offensive flair might have been dimmed forever. “He wanted dump-and-chase, and you wanted puck possession. He wanted you to be a grinder, and you anted to be a speedster.” 

“Yep.” Matt’s tongue gave another nervous dart across his lips. “That about sums it up.” 

“Nothing he did worked with you.” Not that Patrick was confused by that fact. Like a tyrannical fool, Sacco had tried to humiliate a headstrong young man in the media and on the bench, so, of course, the proud player had responded with bouts of rebellion and depression. “Not benching or calling you out in the media.” 

“Right.” Matt ducked his head as if he were a turtle retracting into its shell. “I’m incorrigible.” 

“Chin up, Dutchy,” ordered Patrick. When Matt obeyed, eyes the hue of dappled shadows in a forest lifting to meet his coach’s, Patrick added in a gentler tone, “Sacco embarrassed you, and that didn’t work, so we try something else.” 

The hazel in Matt’s eyes appeared to shift toward the brighter end of the spectrum with hope, and, as if it were a punch to the gut, Patrick suddenly recalled how his skin had felt hot as a bonier and his blood as frigid as the iceberg that capsized the Titanic that fateful game in Montreal where his coach had kept him in the net through a rout just to shame him. Nobody wanted to be made an example of or put in their place in front of a televised audience of millions, and, for Matt, it would be just as humiliating to be chained to the bench during a bad game as it would have been for Patrick to not be allowed to take refuge there when the scoreboard became impossibly lop-sided. 

“I’ll never embarrass you,” Patrick promised, as much for the benefit of the memory of that crushed goaltender whose wounded pride could only be healed by a trade as for the center brimming with talent before him. “Sacco tried to jam a square peg into a circle hole—“ 

“And then lie by claiming both were triangles,” muttered Matt, wrinkling his nose. 

Although he could feel the flesh around his eyes crinkling with amusement, Patrick steamed on as if he couldn’t hear Matt’s quip, “I’m not gonna waste either of our time like that, Dutchy. I show you the kind of player I expect you to be for this team.” 

Before Matt could reply, Patrick grabbed the remote and switched on the television to a highlight reel of what he regarded as Matt’s most unforgettable goals. After each one, he paused the film to praise something specific—shot, speed, or stickhandling—that he admired, and he felt more than saw Matt’s face blossom with every compliment. 

Finally flicking off the television, Patrick concluded, clapping his palms together briskly, “Plays like those are what make you elite center. Will you do them for me, Matt?” 

“Of course.” Matt cleared his throat with a sound that suggested he desperately needed a Claritin. “I want to make you happy, Patty.” 

“Good kid.” Patrick tossled Matt’s hair, which was still damp from the shower. “I’m excited to work with you.” 

“Me too—well, excited to work with you, not myself, obviously.” Plainly flustered at losing his grasp of the English language, Matt, his cheeks cherries, quirked his lips upward in a sheepish expression. “Everyone is excited to work with you, because you have the charm and virtue of not being Joe Sacco.”


End file.
